What The Rest Are Not Yet Able To Do
by Lasrevinu
Summary: CSIHouse crossover. A consult is needed. Chapter 3
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: M

Summary: CSI/House crossover. A consult is needed. This is totally Grissom/Sara.

Spoilers: To understand this, you probably will have had to have seen the House episode _Fidelity_. And if you haven't, well, a man brings his wife to the hospital because she's been sleeping a lot and is not acting like herself. It turns out that she cheated on her husband once, lied about it, and managed to get sleeping sickness via the affair. Another reason to wear a goddamn condom. Some people are idiots.

A/N: I started writing this in October, and it's been sitting on the old hard drive. Stacy Warner does not exist in my world. For all I know, Sela Ward is still Teddy on _Sisters_.

**What The Rest Are Not Yet Able To Do**

Chapter 1

_They say_

_the first love is the most important._

_That's very romantic_

_but it's not the case with me. _

He had overslept. Two weeks of non-stop work, of no days off, of pure hell were put to a stop by Conrad Ecklie's blessed scheming. The new director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab had made it clear upon assuming his much-exalted post that his lab would no longer be the bridesmaid in the rankings, always the runner-up. No, the LVPD would finally grasp the brass ring that had slipped through its metaphorical fingers for years and be the number one lab in the country.

"I'm not settling for seconds," Ecklie explained to his staff the day after his nameplate was put on the door of the corner office. He loomed large and bald over an unimpressed crowd. "We are going to be number one if it kills you. And that means education," he said, pointing is finger at the collective. "You will each be required to amp up your certification in different areas. That means more conferences, more seminars. I want you to get our name out there."

At that point, the janitor in the back raised his hand. "Uh, do I have to…?"

"No, Hector, you're good," Ecklie nodded. "As for the rest of you, the biannual progress reports will now become quarterlies. We are keeping up to date with this, people. I want no slacking off."

With that, he left the room and Dr. Robbins watched Grissom roll his eyes at Catherine. Greg pulled an earbud out and lowered the volume on his iPod. "Did I miss anything?"

Nick stood up and stretched, clapping his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Mandatory sex changes for all new CSIs. Sorry, buddy."

Robbins chuckled at the memory as he rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor of the MGM Grand. The medical conference he signed up for was one afternoon of lecturing and four more days of margaritas and strippers. Conferences and conventions flocked to Vegas because its vices made up for the boring meetings with the equally boring people. Everyone was more interesting in Vegas.

The conference room was already crowded with bored looking doctors. Robbins found a seat next to his urologist, Dr. Arnold Blaufarb. "Who's on the program today, Arn?"

"Some doctors from Princeton."

"Hmm."

"How's about we hit Crazyhorse after this? Sheffield and Miggs are heading there right after Miggs presents on that new strain of super AIDS," Blaufarb explained as he turned his cell ringer off.

Robbins considered the offer while he reached into his pocket and did the same.

A handsome, young oncologist took the stage and the crowd clapped politely.

"Hello, I am Dr. James Wilson…"

Robbins zoned out. He heard bits and pieces of the young doctor's lecture. Wilson was the whiz kid from New Jersey, one of the leaders in cancer research and treatment and he was barely thirty-five. While the seasoned coroner knew he should be paying close attention to the speaker's words, he found himself more focused on another man on the stage, sitting on the panel with the rest of the upcoming presenters. He was rumpled and hunched over, staring intently at what looked like a Gameboy. A cane leaned against the back of his chair. The small electronic device beeped the telltale theme music of Donkey Kong Jr. and Dr. Wilson put his hand on his microphone, turning to address the noise.

"Could you please turn the sound off?" was Wilson's barely audible request.

The man with the bedhead looked up, eyes wide as if he had just noticed he was sitting on a stage in front of a room full of people. He switched the sound off and then hunkered down once more to continue playing his game. A half hour and two speakers later, Robbins noticed that the audience had given up all pretense of listening to the lecturer and was instead eyeing the man in the Pink Floyd T-shirt who repeatedly cursed under his breath at the game in his hands.

When it was his turn to speak, a hush fell over the audience. The man slipped the Gameboy into his blazer pocket. He limped to the podium and cleared his throat. "I am Dr. Gregory House. I'll make this quick. I've got an appointment with a hooker and if I'm late she charges extra. African Trypanosomiasis, more commonly know as African Sleeping Sickness -- or _ASS_, as I like to call it -- presents with nonspecific symptoms that are almost always written off as some other illness…"

Each doctor in the audience leaned a bit forward and absorbed Dr. House's lecture: an exotic disease, cheating spouses, lies and betrayal. Though unapologetically surly, his storytelling abilities made up for any meanness in his demeanor.

Blaufarb tilted his head to the side and whispered to his friend. "We should invite this guy out for a drink."

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_There was something between us yet there wasn't._

_It transpired and expired. _

The sun set over Las Vegas, tinting the sky and everything under it a vague orange. With Greg and Sara in tow, Grissom crossed the police barricade and onto the lawn of a nice, suburban home. Brass exited the front door before they could enter and silently led them to the crime scene in the backyard. Grissom spoke first when they came within sight of the body. "Dispatch said this was an assault."

"Dispatch was wrong. The deceased is a Mr. Robert P. Howell, human rights activist," Brass answered before popping a Rolaid in his mouth. The three criminalists stared at the body laying face up on the lawn, his pajama top ripped open, exposing a pale white chest.

"I see the paramedics have already been here," Grissom noted. Howell had some swelling and a large bruise on his right cheek, but otherwise, there were no obvious signs of assault. "Where's the suspect?"

"Next-door neighbor's being questioned by Vega now in his kitchen," Brass informed him. "Name of Steven Landry. Said he threw one punch when Howell came towards him and that was it."

Sara furrowed her brow. "Witnesses?"

"Howell's wife was doing the laundry at the time. She's in her house crying hysterically. A neighbor in the next house over," he explained, pointing past Landry's home to a large pink stucco building, "said she was gardening and heard the altercation -- one man yelled, another yelled back, and then boom. Landry called 911, tried to resuscitate the victim himself."

Grissom regarded the body for a moment longer and then turned to Greg. "Start processing. Sara?"

"Yes?"

"Come with me."

They walked onto Landry's back patio and through the screen doors that led to the kitchen. Vega was questioning the suspect at his kitchen table. The man was large, around three hundred pounds of muscle, Grissom estimated, and was answering the detective's questions in a soft voice as he stared at his hands.

"Rob charged at me. Instinct kicked in. I hit him."

"Why would he charge at you?" Vegas asked skeptically. "You're a big guy. Hey, I work out myself but I'm not stupid enough to mess with a man your size."

"He said I was after Rachel," Landry answered.

"His wife?"

The suspect looked up at him. "He was away for three months -- in Africa on business -- and she needed help putting together a bookcase for her home office. I helped her. He got mad, I guess."

"So the human rights activist -- the man who travels to other countries and lobbies for the rights of other people -- charged at Mr. Universe because he helped the guy's wife build a bookcase," Vega summed up. "Does that sound right to you?"

Landry threw up his hands. "I don't know what was wrong with Rob. It seems like every other night I hear him and Rachel fighting. She's got a broken arm. Ask her how she got that," he said defensively. "Fell down the stairs, my ass," muttered the suspect, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Their house only has one floor."

Vega narrowed his eyes into slits, his mouth firm. "So you rid the neighborhood of a bastard, a wife beater? You were doing the world a service?"

"I didn't mean to kill him," Landry said hotly. "I'm friends with Rob. He charged at me."

The detective put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, well we're gonna go downtown and you can tell us all what good friends you were with the man you beat to death."

Grissom and Sara, kits in hand, walked around Landry's house and found nothing out of the ordinary. "Lots of porn and sports memorabilia," Sara muttered as they wandered into the den. "Typical male."

Grissom felt his face grow hot. He had a couple of signed baseballs in his office and three or four old Playboys buried deep in the drawer of his nightstand.

"The guy was a total workout junkie," Sara noted as they opened the door to Landry's immense home gym. "Man, you could teach my tae bo class in here."

His head whipped around and he stared at her. It was odd to think of Sara in an environment other than work. He knew she had to go to the grocery store and the mall and get her hair done every once in a while, but for some reason, he didn't like to picture her doing those things -- the regular everyday things that meant she had a life when he wasn't around. No, his Sara was supposed to leave work and go straight home to her apartment and read forensics journals while listening to her police scanner. The idea of her interacting with anyone on a personal basis irked him.

He shook his head, attempting to clear it of everything but the case at hand. "Let's go talk to Landry's neighbor."

"Don't waste your time," Brass said, walking through the sliding door and into the kitchen where the two CSIs stood. "Mrs. Alma Barnaby saw nothing but her prize azaleas. She was on her knees, weeding."

Sara furrowed her brow. "But what did she hear?"

"'I'm going to kill you,'" Brass quoted.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but who said it?"

"Mrs. Barnaby said it was a man's voice."

"Well, that narrows it down," Sara sighed.

* * *

Grissom sat back in his desk chair and yawned, deciding it was time to pack up and go home. There had been little evidence to collect and the victim's wife was too grief-stricken to interview just yet. He was waiting on the coroner's report, which he wouldn't have until next shift at the earliest, seeing as the dayshift coroner was handling nightshift cases while Doc Robbins attended medical lectures. It was time to call it a day. 

"Where do you think you're going?"

Grissom blinked and focused on the figure standing in his doorway. "Uh, how can I help you, Catherine?"

"You can help by getting Ecklie and the Sheriff off my ass."

Confrontations were never his forte. He felt his stomach drop. "Um…why?"

"Brooke Rivers," she told him. When she got no response, Catherine threw up her hands. "Brooke Rivers! Hotel heiress, resident Las Vegas party animal, sex tape scandal. Ring any bells?"

"She was killed, wasn't she?"

"Strangled in the presidential suite of one of her parents' hotels; three of her socialite friends shot, execution-style in the bathroom," Catherine explained.

"Okay."

"_Okay? _I need more guys on this," she exclaimed. "This is _the _biggest murder of the year and the media is _going crazy_. Forget Tom Haviland. Tom Haviland was _nothing _compared to this."

Grissom secretly said a silent prayer of thanks for not getting stuck with Catherine's case. He loathed the media. They seemed to place an importance on specific, hindering rather than helping any progress. The more time the crime lab spent reporting, the less was spent on actually studying the evidence. On the big cases, everyone seemed to want an update on every single step of the investigation and that drove the normally calm Gil Grissom up the wall. He knew he had to appease Catherine enough so she wouldn't ask for his actual participation.

"Okay, all of your evidence is first priority for the lab techs and I'll give you Greg."

"Greg?" Catherine scoffed. "He's a CSI Level I. I love the kid, but I don't have any time to babysit. Not on this case. Give me Sara."

He didn't want to. For some reason, he wanted desperately to work with her, to be around her. They had been spending more time together as of late. Grissom had vowed to be a better leader after his old team was reunited under dire circumstances. Nick's almost-death had been a wake-up call for everyone, and Grissom decided to make small steps towards bridging the gap that had widened between himself and his employees since he assumed the position of nightshift supervisor. He started taking them all out to breakfast after shift a couple of times a month. The six of them would all go to a nearby diner and scarf down pancakes and omelets while discussing their most recent case or sports or nothing at all. Catherine always left first, followed by Warrick, and then Nick and Greg would usually leave together and go to the gym to work off their breakfast, leaving Grissom and Sara alone with their cold coffee. She would always smile shyly at him when she realized it was just the two of them, and he would always ask her how she was doing. They didn't talk much, but it was so nice to just sit with her, and he increasingly found himself wanting to take only Sara to breakfast.

But he had to relent and give her to Catherine for the one case. He'd take her out right after they closed it.

"Alight, you can have Sara," Grissom mumbled, mourning the hours they would have spent together quietly going through the contents of their blessedly boring case.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_My hands don't tremble,_

_when I stumble upon small mementos_

_or a stack of letters wrapped in twine_

—_not even a ribbon. _

Grissom only got to see Sara once in the following two days. She was slipping into her jacket in front of her locker. He stayed in the background, out of her line of sight, and just watched her. Her hair was limp and probably hadn't been washed recently, seeing as Sara had been logging insane hours working Catherine's case. Though he pitied her, Grissom was glad he wasn't working the case with her. He had managed to get most of his paperwork done as he waited on the dayshift coroner's report. Landry, the musclehead neighbor, had been released on $100,000 bond and was likely headed for trial once the coroner's findings were out.

As he surveyed an expense report, Grissom's mind began to wander. He had been invited to lecture in Montreal later in the year -- something Ecklie would approve of as it would heighten the profile of the lab -- but never really considered going; work was always hectic and he didn't like to leave the lab for anything longer than a good night's rest.

But he could take Sara with him.

Sure, she was overqualified to help prepare his slides for the projector and do roll call, but she'd be with him.

Grissom decided he'd work up the nerve and ask her to go by their next breakfast. He was pretty sure she still was interested in him, something he never fully understood but was learning to accept. For whatever reason, she liked him. He was older, set in his ways, married to his job, but she was willing to overlook all of that, it seemed.

Just as he was about to break out in a big grin at his good luck, Greg breezed into his office with the coroner's report. "So here it is and I was wondering if maybe you'd let me work Catherine's case?" the rookie blurted out. "Biggest case of the year. I want a piece."

Grissom rolled his eyes. "Once we wrap this one up -- and if it's okay with Catherine -- you can go."

Greg smiled and handed the older man the report. "Thanks, Grissom."

He wasn't used to the dayshift coroner's neat, slanted cursive. Doctor Robbins had the handwriting of a serial killer and though many found it undecipherable, after over a decade Grissom had grown used to it. It took a moment to adjust to the penmanship before he could read on. "It says here COD was the rupture of bridging veins and a sub-dural hematoma due to the blow to the head," he muttered out loud. "There was significant evidence of Reiter's Syndrome including edema and lesions present on the body."

"So it was the punch that killed him?" Greg asked.

"It seems so.."

"What does this Reiter's Syndrome have to do with it?"

Grissom shrugged. "I want another look at the body. It's possible that the victim's constitution was weakened. Lesions are often present on people with cancers specific to AIDS and the victim spent a lot of his time in Africa…"

"Are you saying that Robert Howell had AIDS?"

"He probably didn't."

"Do coroner's even run those tests standard with every autopsy?"

"I'm just postulating, Greg. The victim spent months in Africa and lived the rest of the time here in Las Vegas and he's pale as a ghost. When I get a coroner's report with a possible underlying disease in addition to the COD, I like to double-check everything," Grissom explained. "Let's go to the morgue. I want to take another look."

But as the philosopher Jagger once said, _You can't always get what you want_.

Both men were shocked to learn Robert Howell's body had been released to the mortuary.

Grissom was incensed. He sent Greg to fetch the corpse while he confiscated any and all pictures dayshift coroner Sal Jenner had managed to snap before hurdling the body out of the morgue like a hot potato. "From now on, any nightshift cases you work on do not get released without the say so of the lead criminalist in the investigation," he said ominously.

"That's not Ecklie's policy."

"It's _my _policy."

Grissom waited for Greg in his office. He reviewed the pictures carefully, jotting any notes he had down on legal paper and looking up his medical queries online to see if they matched the victim's symptomatologies. A shadow lurked at his doorway and Grissom looked up, ready to smile, when he saw a sullen Greg trudge balefully into his office.

"They cremated him."

His jaw clenched. Grissom reached for the phone.

* * *

He had crotch in his face. Naked crotch framed by tattooed roses and a shooting star. Very artful, he thought to himself. 

And just as that crotch was about to lower into his lap and grind, Dr. Robbins' pager had his own crotch buzzing. He checked it and sighed. He could ignore Ecklie. He could ignore Dr. Cavallo. He could ignore David and Catherine and Warrick and the sheriff, but, God help him, he couldn't ignore Grissom. The man was a friend and, more importantly, he was who Dr. Robbins thought he'd be if he had let the loss of his legs keep him from living his life.

Dr. Robbins skimmed the stripper's thigh and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He dialed Grissom's number and held the phone to his ear.

"Grissom."

"Gil, it's Albert. You paged me?"

"Your replacement is an idiot. I need your help. I have a possible homicide here -- the report said COD was a blow to the head but I think there's more to it. Dead guy was a human rights activist and a wife beater," the CSI explained. "It just doesn't gel."

"You think something neurological was going on?" Robbins asked as he slipped another twenty to Peaches.

"I don't know, Al," Grissom sighed.

"Well, keep the body cold and I'll get there when I get there." Peaches was very, _very _flexible, after all..

"The body's been cremated. I need you here now."

Doctor Robbins coughed. "You want me to diagnose a pile of ashes? The guy's been cremated. You might as well ask me to bring him back to life. I'm no miracle worker, Gil." He listened to his co-worker sigh on the other end of the line and was prepared to hammer home the point and then continue to enjoy Peaches and her pole partner Cream when the coroner felt a hard tap on his right shoulder.

He turned his head and saw the business end of a wooden cane resting on his clavicle. Attached to the cane was the video game-playing lecturer.

"How fortunate it is for you that I _am _a miracle worker."

* * *

As the two doctors hobbled out into the parking lot, Robbins gave House the lowdown on the case. "The nightshift supervisor briefed me on the situation: human rights activist suspected of domestically assaulting his wife died a couple of days ago after an altercation with a neighbor. The neighbor said the victim was charging at him." 

"Well, he would say that, wouldn't he?" House said, rolling his eyes. His phone began to trill loudly. "Hold on, it's the wife." He hit 'Talk' and held the phone to his ear. "What is it?"

James Wilson's voice was its usual mix of exasperation and concern. "Where are you?"

"I'm off to the cripples convention. What are you, my mother?"

"Yes, Greg," Wilson said over the line, "I'm your mother. I had planned on telling you when you turned forty, but I chickened out. It's not that I didn't love you -- I just wasn't mature enough to raise a child. Can you imagine what it would've been like on your first day of kindergarten? A sperm and egg, yet to be fertilized, walking you to class? I made the right choice, Greg. One day you'll understand."

"You're hilarious," House said dryly. "Well, I just enjoyed some lovely Peaches and Cream and now I'm going to sift through charred human remains in order to figure out how a guy died. I'll see you when I see you."

"Ah, not tonight, though. I'm going to go meet up with…uh…"

"Do me a favor and don't get married again, will you? You have less matrimonial self-control than Jennifer Lopez."

"Very funny," Wilson said before bidding his friend adieu.

House hung up and noticed Dr. Robbins eyeing him. "That was your wife?"

They piled into the coroner's car and House sighed. "How long have you been practicing medicine?"

"Too long."

"And you haven't learned the cardinal rule?"

"First do no harm?"

"People _lie_," House said emphatically.

Dr. Robbins shrugged and started his car. "I guess I'm lucky, then."

"How's that?"

"Dead people don't do much talking."

* * *

Catherine rubbed her eyes and checked the clock. Nick and Warrick were due back any minute. "Once they get here, we can switch off," she told Sara. "I need some sleep. I've been up for so long and haven't showered since…well, let's just say if I were wearing Day Of The Week underpants, I'd be a little belated." 

"Thank you, Catherine. I needed to know that."

"I do what I can."

As refreshed as could be on five hours of uninterrupted sleep, Nick and Warrick ambled into the layout room to relieve their co-workers of duty.

Catherine sighed at the sight of them. "Oh, I'm going to go home and take a bath with an egg timer."

Nick looked confused. "And egg timer?"

"Yeah, just in case I fall asleep in the tub."

The men laughed and turned to Sara. "What about you?" Warrick asked. "You going to go all girly and take a bath or are you going to go the man route and take a shower? No candles, no incense."

"I can't do either. I'm meeting a friend soon. Really soon," she said, checking her watch. "I'll be lucky if I can change first. Later guys."

The three CSIs watched her leave and then exchanged looks. Warrick narrowed his eyes. "Since when does Sara have friends?"

* * *

Grissom had everything ready for the doctor extraordinaire Albert told him about. While Grissom's research had him leaning towards an immunocompromised diagnosis, Dr. Robbins seemed to think differently after hearing the dayshift coroner's unconfirmed Reiter's diagnosis. He didn't go into it, but seemed certain the visiting doctor would be able to handle it. 

As he waited for the doctors, Grissom immersed himself in research about the suspected disease. _Reiter's Syndrome is a disorder that causes three seemingly unrelated symptoms: arthritis, redness of the eyes, and urinary tract signs. It is sometimes referred to as a seronegative spondyloarthropathy because it is one of a group of disorders that cause inflammation throughout the body, particularly in parts of the spine and at other joints where tendons attach to bones. Reiter's syndrome is not contagious; that is, a person with the disorder cannot pass it to somebody else. However, the bacteria that can trigger it can be passed from one person to another, although not all people infected with the bacteria will develop Reiter's syndrome. Rather, it is likely that people who develop the disease have inherited a trait that makes them susceptible. Men between the ages of 20 and 40 are most likely to develop Reiter's syndrome. It is the most common type of arthritis affecting young men._

After reading that last line, Grissom was, for once, thankful he was nearing fifty. He stroked his beard and read on. _Diagnosing Reiter's Syndrome is often difficult because there is no specific test to confirm that a person has it. When a patient reports symptoms, the doctor must examine him or her carefully and rule out other causes of arthritis._

There was no body to examine. Grissom hoped the pictures would be sufficient. He didn't know exactly what he was trying to prove, but the whole case just didn't jive for him. Something didn't feel right. Brass had interviewed some of the neighbors who testified to the affability of Robert Howell…until recently. Everyone from the mailman to the gardener described a type of Jekyll and Hyde personality springing up as of late, inhabiting the once gentle human rights activist. Howell's boss at the non-profit agency spoke of the merits of his employee, but when Brass inquired about the deceased man's work habits, the boss had to admit that Howell had increasingly called in sick and missed days of work. He claimed Howell's personality change and recent irritability odd because his last trip to Africa led to the biggest grant in the agency's history.

"We were set for a long time," the boss had said. "And it was all Rob's doing. Everyone was so proud of him. He helped so many people."

And yet this man who had helped so many came back from his trip and proceeded to argue with a neighbor and allegedly abuse his spouse.

It just didn't fit.

* * *

The two doctors ran into Greg as they stepped off of the elevator. The frazzled former lab tech wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans and held out his hand to House, who sneered at it and turned to Robbins. 

"I'd like you to meet Dr. Gregory House from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. He's a world famous diagnostician," Robbins explained.

Greg beamed. "My name's Greg, too."

"Oh, no. That won't do. From here on out, you're Stephen." He looked down the hall and lifted his cane up, pointing forward. "Now, where is the body -- or what's left of it."

"Oh, uh….right down this way," Greg stammered. "I-I'll take you there."

They walked to the large room where Grissom waited. "Here we are," Greg said, having regained a little bit of his confidence on the walk down the hall. "We've got the ashes and pictures taken by the dayshift coroner before he…you know…discharged the body."

House reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills. "Get me a Coke and -- you have vending machines here, right?"

"Um…yeah."

"Get me those little crackers with peanut butter. If they don't have those, get pretzels. If they don't have pretzels, get me chips -- preferably barbeque."

"O…kay." Greg took the money and left.

"Thank you, Stephen."

Robbins introduced House to Grissom. Grissom smiled politely while House eyed the entomologist as they shook hands. His grip on Grissom's smooth hand was firm and he did not return the CSI's smile.

"Can I see the report?"

Grissom handed the file over to House. "Body temp was above normal at the time of death."

"Ninety-eight point six is just an average," House muttered. "Or this guy could've just had a cold."

"Or it could've really been a fever. He called in sick several times, didn't he, Gil?" Robbins asked.

Grissom nodded. "According to his boss."

House examined the photos closely. "And this dayshift guy said Reiter's?"

"Yes," Grissom answered. "But there's no way to actually test for the disease, as you know. It was just an assumption based on the edema and lesions and the victim's sex and age."

"You've done your homework," House said under his breath, still examining the pictures.

Dr. Robbins pressed his lips together and watched House work, peering over his shoulder to glace at the pictures occasionally, but mostly keeping his attention on the famous doctor. "You know what it could be, don't you?"

"Oh, please," House said, rolling his eyes. "It's not ASS."

Grissom blinked. "Ass?"

"African Sleeping Sickness," Robbins clarified. "Dr. House just presented on a case of it at the lecture. Fascinating. And it presents with edema, lesions, and fever. Also with rash and sometimes sudden irritability."

"Sudden irritability?" Grissom asked, eyes wide.

"Has the victim even _been _to Africa? Was he out there, pitching a tent next to Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt? Or was _Alex Haley's Roots _the closest Mr. Howell ever got to Africa?"

Grissom, unsure how to deal with such a vibrant personality, pursed his lips. "The victim lobbied for human rights in Africa. He spent a large part of each year traveling the continent."

House's eyes twinkled with mischief. "That's a horse of a different color."

"What is?" Greg asked as he entered the room, snacks in hand.

House regarded the chips. "These aren't barbeque."

* * *

He waited for her towards the back of the restaurant. She had paged him, saying she'd be late, and he checked his watch once again. The restaurant was getting crowded, filled with couples in various stages of courtship. He was an expert at guessing how long a pair of people had been together just by their interactions at a far away table. The couple by the piano were smiling too much. Total blind daters. The people directly in front of him had been together no more than three years -- most likely celebrating an anniversary by the looks of their discomfort in their dress clothes. The three year mark usually meant going to a restaurant that didn't also do takeout was a big deal. The man kept fussing with his tie and the women checked her jewelry every other minute. They were people used to staying home at night in front of the TV, relaxing with a bucket of chicken in one hand and the remote in the other. 

He envied him. Relationships for him were never that easy.

And it was just his luck that he never fell in love with Sara. Maybe then James Wilson wouldn't have married three women more interested in being the doctor's wife than the doctor himself. At that very moment, he saw her step into the dining room and address the maitre d' who then ushered her to his table.

Wilson stood up to kiss her hello, remarking on her ever-increasing beauty only to have her scoff modestly at the compliment.

"It's true. You just get prettier."

They smiled and talked about work and his parents and her most recent trip to the dentist, skirting around the white elephant until dessert when Wilson decided to go for broke. "Aren't you going to ask? Or do I have to be the one to bring the issue up?"

Sara stared at her plate. "How…how is he?"

"Not too good since you left."

She looked away into the distance, the buzz in her ears drowning out the tinkling of the grand piano. "I found him in bed with another woman. What choice did I have?"

Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Are you seeing anybody now?"

Sara pushed her plate forward sadly. "No."

TBC…

A/N: The medical info was cribbed from the CDC.


End file.
